The tension was thick. It was the third day. Three religious men, full of shit and faith, wandering, half-lost, half-impassioned. Their prime motive was much simpler on paper: it was to find the middle ground between their beliefs.

It was the eleventh hour of the priest’s diatribe. The rabbi’s face was buried in his long gray beard, half-asleep, full on snoring, and barely walking. Sleep apnea is a serious disorder, and when untreated, one can stop breathing repeatedly during their sleep. This means that the brain doesn’t get enough oxygen, which leads to a shorter life span. SPOILER ALERT: The rabbi might not make it to the end of this story.

The monk’s eyes were glazed over with utter boredom like a millennial playing a Nintendo NES Retro Entertainment system for eight minutes. The priest was blathering, “My God states that since I am closer to thee, it is my moral duty and obligation to shape the younger impressionable members of the flock.”

The priest heard his own words and realized that he may have incriminated himself. By sheer coincidence, the rabbi snorted, and shook himself awake.

The defensive priest reacted, “What? Are you going to ka-vetch about my religion? After I listened to your verbal assault for two days?”

“Oy vey, it’s kvetch, one and a half syllables, not two. What a yutz you are.” The very Asian monk spat, rightfully disgusted.

The rabbi folded his arms in agreement like a ‘80s rapper, and accentuated, “Word, dawg.”

The priest gulped audibly, “If for one minute either of you is judging me, so help me God, I will smite you mightily.”

“How does one not judge a priest who claims the privilege of molesting younger members? Therefore, smite me, weakling, and I shall smite you twofold like the schmuck you are.” The monk closed his eyes and drew strength from the nature around him. The earth trembled.

The rabbi laughed heartily, as the monk took the attack stance of wakening dragon. The rabbi spit into his soft hands and rubbed them profusely. He hunched forward, “Smite me? You and what army?”

The priest took a step back and put up his fists like an old-timey boxer with a handlebar mustache. He juggled his fists up and down, and it was obvious to anyone that he had never put up his dukes before. It was also fatally obvious that if this continued, he was going to end up seriously hurt. This is what it must look like if you placed a slingshot next to a nuclear bomb.

For the next three minutes, the three men posed and circled each other, breathing heavily, panting. One of the three men wet himself. It was the priest. If this didn’t end soon, the priest was going to be dead, the rabbi tossed into a tree, and the monk living the rest of his days with profound guilt.

It just so happened, as they shuffled and danced around and about, they ended up in front of a tavern. Each man slowly put down their mortal weapons, and looked up at the wooden sign that creaked as it swung slowly. It read: “Simply Tavern”. The monk cracked a smile followed by a wink, the rabbi tugged his beard sharply, and the priest adjusted his damp crotch. The rabbi broke the silence, “Nothing helps a slight altercation than a few drams of the hooch.” They all laughed knowing full well there was nothing funny going on.

As they walked into the bar, the three men felt a sharp tinge of true purpose as a bright light blinded them and a heavenly chorus deafened them.

MORAL: Transcendence is in the journey, not the destination, or conversely, transcendence is in the destination, not the journey. It all depends on if you’re a half-empty or half-full sort of person.